


Talk to Me

by homosociallyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the November johnlockchallenges gift exchange, from the following prompt by ladyelayne: Masturbation, Sherlock's voice. But writing in Sherlock's voice wasn't working for me, so I wrote about Sherlock's voice instead. I was worried it wasn't explicit enough, but then once I posted it I realized it is, in fact. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talk to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyElayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyElayne/gifts).



> Thanks to the world's best beta and my dearest darling, [rayvanfox](archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox)/[zooeyscigar](zooeyscigar.tumblr.com)

John Watson stood behind and to the side of Sherlock as he spoke at their latest crime scene: "...the callouses on her index and ring fingers indicate an unusual grip when holding a writing instrument. Her L's and I's should slant far to the right. The words in this note are a forgery. Not a bad one, mind you, but certainly not those of our victim. The killer we're looking for will be..."  
  
Sherlock continued on, but John was too busy watching the slow bob of his adam's apple as he paused, swallowed, and spoke again. He let his tongue slip out to wet his lips as he felt his cock twitching to life. He had to admit that he had a problem. John was starting to have a serious sexual connection with Sherlock's voice.  
  
It had started out innocently enough. In fact, John had assumed that it was only Sherlock’s deductions that he'd found so fascinating. So he had allowed himself to start praising Sherlock for sharing his ideas on people and things and of course the cases. "Brilliant," he'd say. "Stunning." He never said, "my stomach just flipped when you likened the primary murder suspect to a 'jaguar on the prowl' instead of saying something simpler.”  
  
But over time, he noticed subtle changes in his reactions to Sherlock, and when he allowed himself to look at his feelings, he thought they bore a striking resemblance to attraction. Desire, even. And so, in an attempt to understand what was at the root of these feelings, he took the opportunity when Sherlock was in his mind palace one afternoon to really look at him. He started at Sherlock's feet and worked his way up, thinking it might make it easier if he left the voice and the throat that it came out of until last, since that seemed to be the locus of his desire.  
  
Bare feet, toes wiggling: Nothing.  
Calves and thighs: Well defined musculature, apparent even in trousers. Piqued a more medical interest than anything else.  
Groin and hips: Not ready to think about that particular area, though he wet his lips at the thought of passing over it.  
Abdomen and chest: Sherlock's buttons strained across it, and John, since he was being honest with himself, had a moment of wanting to watch them pop off one at a time. Put a pin in that, then.  
Neck: Sherlock chose this moment to swallow, and John’s reaction to the sight of his adam’s apple bobbing combined with the slight sound it made breaking through the silence in the flat was telling. Another pin in that one, perhaps.  
Hands and arms: His hands were steepled in front of his chin, the long fingers occasionally drumming against one another, and while the sight was interesting it didn’t grab John like Sherlock’s neck and chest had.  
Face: John closed his eyes and tried to open them as if he were seeing Sherlock again for the first time. Would he be attracted to this face , this man, or would he just be looking at his flat mate? When John opened his eyes, Sherlock’s full lips were pursed slightly and his nostrils were flaring slightly. His eyes were closed, but moving rapidly behind his eyelids. John breathed out a sigh of confusion and then tried to concentrate.  
  
It was then that Sherlock spoke, “Honestly John, if you’re going to think that loudly I do wish you’d leave the room. Or aren’t you aware that I need complete silence to truly wander in my mind palace?”  
  
“Right, sorry, Sherlock,” John muttered as he left the room. But inside his brain was humming with the processing of information. Whatever physical or sexual thoughts he might have about Sherlock, it was his voice that made John feel weak. At least now he knew, and could act accordingly. Or not.  
  
At first he thought he’d ignore the problem until it went away. This had worked in the past with co-workers who didn’t return his affections--he’d simply set his desires aside until they were all but forgotten about in favor of a normal working relationship. It was clear within a week that his usual course of action would not work here, however. First off, living with Sherlock made forgetting his desire fairly difficult, as it would quickly resurface whenever Sherlock said his name or began describing his latest experiment. That was another thing. John hadn’t realized, but Sherlock talked. A lot. Yes, even in his sleep state, curled into the couch in his blue dressing gown after 48 hours awake, his voice hummed and purred and stretched out of his throat, digging a languid claw into John and pulling him in to listen, enthralled.  
  
When he sat on the floor at the end of the couch, biting his lip and barely breathing, for 30 minutes listening to a sleeping Sherlock mumble out deductions (apparently all the ones he hadn’t spoken aloud at the case they’d been on earlier), he knew that “leaving it aside” wouldn’t work this time.  
  
His next approach was usually to address the problem directly. In the few times that ignoring his feelings hadn’t worked, he’d found that laying them bare to the object of his desire usually caused them to evaporate rather quickly. This often happened by accident as well, or it had for the past few months with every woman he’d started dating since moving into 221B. Yet again, this situation proved to be trickier than the others. Not only was getting his courage screwed up a bit difficult, but the one time he finally felt ready, Sherlock began talking over him, which in turn made John leave the room, heart racing just a bit.  
  
Abandoning that idea rather quickly, John moved on to what seemed to be his final option: indulge. He started by asking open ended questions about topics that he knew Sherlock found interesting and just listening, focused, as Sherlock spoke at length. He’d feel his heart speed up at certain words and his breath catching at others. But it was when he asked about the last case they’d been on that things moved to the next level for John.  
  
“And of course the murderer had a wank at the crime scene. Rather unusual choice, but given that he’s clearly sexually stunted it isn’t that...”  
  
“Wait, hold on a moment Sherlock. He ‘had a wank? AT THE CRIME SCENE? How am I just learning of this now?” John spluttered. His mind raced over the words he hadn’t heard Sherlock say before: wank. sexually. Could he pull more out of him? This was indulging at its worst or finest, John wasn’t sure which.  
  
“If you’d been observing your surroundings you’d have noticed the signs, John.” Sherlock said with annoyance.  
  
“You don’t mean that he left...”John let his voice trail off, willing Sherlock to finish the sentence. He was building a collection of words for--well, he wasn’t sure, but he certainly had them set aside mentally.  
  
“Ejaculate? Well, certainly there was that.” Sherlock’s word choice was not what John had been hoping for, but it would work well enough for him to continue.  
  
“And? What else was there?” John asked.  
  
“Well, the ligature marks on the neck were not caused by the killer pulling the rope with both hands, the slippage made that clear. Which of course means...” Sherlock continued but his words were not at all what John wanted to hear. So he just let the excited hum fill his ears and ignored the content, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t catch on to the slight blush that colored his cheeks.  
  
####  
  
“John?” Sherlock called out from the living room. Poking his head out of the kitchen, John asked, “you need something, Sherlock, or did you think I’d been in the room this whole time?”  
  
“Come closer, John.” Sherlock’s voice was a purr, but it had teeth to it, a commanding air. John obeyed.  
He swallowed hard before asking, “something the matter?”  
  
Sherlock shot up from his seat and was in front of John within seconds. When he spoke, his voice was lower, but with those same sharp edges, “Yes, John. I think you don’t trust my powers of observation any longer, and it irks me.” John felt the familiar rise of desire starting in his belly and spreading. “I don’t know what you mean, Sherlock.”  
  
John cast his eyes down to avoid Sherlock’s stare, but the gesture was an empty one, as Sherlock moved just behind John as he spoke. “I’ve noticed, John. The way that you’re listening to me. When I say certain words, you hold your breath. You’re doing it now, in fact.” John exhaled, but Sherlock continued, “you lean in closer to me  the longer I speak, which is the opposite reaction I get from other people. You mirror me, as well, though I’ve noticed you do that with almost everyone.”   
  
“That’s all nothing, Sherlock. I...” Before John could finish, Sherlock cut him off. “The final thing is the most important.” At this, Sherlock leaned in, his breath hot on John’s ear, and said, “John,” with his voice a low, growling whisper that sounded rougher and needier than John had ever heard it. “When I say your name, John, I see you flush red all over. I can almost trace the blood rising up your neck and down.”  
  
Having never had Sherlock’s voice so close, John felt suddenly overwhelmed by his need to get even closer to Sherlock physically. He felt himself exhale and lean back toward the other man, willing him to speak again.  
  
“And if I make my voice just slightly feminine, but keep the growling lowness that you seem to enjoy so much, like this, John,” Sherlock drawled out his name in a slightly higher register but still growling the h, aching and needy and full somehow. “John, I can watch your ears go red and feel” he slid his hands down John’s arms, catching them at the wrists, “your pulse quicken. Not subtly at all.”  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock, just keep talking,” John said, grinding into Sherlock. It felt good, but softer than he expected.  
  
John awoke panting and hard. It had been a while since he’d had a dream like that, and the last one hadn’t left him feeling quite like this.  
  
He stumbled down to the shower, hoping that the water would clear his mind and give him a chance to take care of his erection.  
  
Sherlock's voice echoed through his head as the warm water ran over his skin. He could hear the purr and growl behind his ear, his mind taking dream Sherlock's words further. He let the voice guide his actions.  
  
"Run your hand down your chest, over your stomach, yes. Good, John. Now take yourself in hand. Stroke slowly down. Ahh, slower, John. Take your time." He leaned against the wall of the shower and let himself imagine that Sherlock was watching him. That the voice in his head was real. It was easy enough.  
  
"Tease along the head, John. Rub in small circles right at the tip, with just the slightest pressure that increases at my command. Now. More. Yes." He felt the pressure building up, and imagined Sherlock’s approval. “Hold back, John. I see that you want to come for me, but I’m enjoying watching you. Stroke a bit faster, now. Good, yes. Such strong hands, John. Steady. Slide the foreskin back, yes. Yes, John, like that.” John bit his lip at his inner Sherlock’s praise. Would he ever say things like that? Could he? Praise certainly didn’t come easy to the man in other areas.  
  
No matter. This was a fantasy, after all. “Are you close, John?” He tried to imagine a warm bead of water was Sherlock’s tongue trailing down his neck, and that it was Sherlock, not the shower wall, that he leaned into. “Yes, Sherlock, fuck, I’m so close. Tell me what you want to see.” He spoke aloud, hoping that Sherlock was still asleep and wouldn’t hear. “I want to see you using both hands, John. Thrust hard into one as you slide the other down to your bollocks and, yes, like that. Oh yes, John. Come for me, I want to watch you.” John bit back a moan as he arched off the shower wall and spurted into his hand. It was over quickly, but he could still feel Sherlock’s breath in his ear and the sound of Sherlock saying his name.  
  
Then John heard a knock at the door and the sound of Sherlock actually calling out his name. He straightened up and cleared his throat, letting the water run over his face momentarily before responding, “Yes, Sherlock, what is it?”   
  
Sherlock opened the door slightly to answer, “Text from Lestrade. I’ll go on my own but I’ll text if I want you to come.” John felt himself blushing as he sputtered out a quick response. Sherlock shut the door and John stood under the shower spray, shaking his head and wondering how long Sherlock had been standing at the bathroom door and whether or not he had figured out John’s growing problem.  
  
###  
  
It might have been John’s imagination, but he was fairly certain that Sherlock had, in fact, figured out everything. The clues were small, but to John they added up quickly. First had been Sherlock’s choice of words after John had tossed off in the shower. “Want you to come.” It would have been a simple enough coincidence, but it was only the beginning. John soon noticed Sherlock adding subtle double entendres to his deductions as well as their conversations. John also thought that Sherlock had been speaking differently, adjusting his voice and--he couldn’t be certain, but he felt it was possible--watching John for his reactions to the shifts in pitch or tone. John did his best to hide when one of Sherlock’s dips or changes really “worked” for him, but he found it increasingly difficult.  
  
The dreams hadn’t stopped after the first one. If anything, they’d grown more heated and intense. John would wake up in a cold sweat every morning, and his hand would be at his cock before he had even had time to open his eyes. He found he was less worried about Sherlock hearing him when he was in his room, and so he’d taken to tossing off in bed and cleaning up before his morning shower. Though there were mornings when his dreams were vivid enough that the thought of them could have him hard again before his shower was done, and he’d stay in until he came a second time.  
  
Then, just over a week later, the final change in Sherlock’s behavior, signalling to John that he must know about John’s feelings. He began calling instead of texting. John had always preferred calls to texts, but in Sherlock’s case he had grown accustomed to the small beep and buzz of his text alert each time the detective wanted to get ahold of him. So when his phone trilled out a ring and he answered, he expected to hear a different voice. Anyone but Sherlock’s, really.  
  
“John, I need you.”  
“Wh--Sherlock? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” John let go of the cart he’d been idly pushing with his free hand and began heading toward the front of the Tesco’s.  
“Not hurt, John, but it is urgent. Come at once.” Sherlock’s voice did sound urgent. And unbelievably gorgeous, even over the phone. John swallowed, his throat going dry.  
“Where are you, then?” he asked quickly, shaking his head to clear out the thoughts that had started accumulating in his brain.  
“At the flat. In bed,” John heard him stifling a yawn.  
“In bed?” John stopped just outside the automatic doors, almost dropping his phone.  
“Yes, John, I’m in bed, and I need you to come at once. As I’ve said, it’s urgent.”  
And with that, Sherlock hung up the phone. John struggled home, half hard and cursing Sherlock’s perfect voice. If the calls kept up, he was going to have some hard times ahead. Sherlock knew, he had to. And this was his way of experimenting, well, so be it.    
  
Of course the calls continued, Sherlock growing bolder with each one. A little over a week after the first one, John was beginning to doubt that he could take much more of Sherlock’s experimenting. The call that finally pushed things over the edge started out not unlike most of the others.    
“John, where are you? I require your services immediately.”

“Hm, yes, well Sherlock I’m not your bloody errand boy. But if you must know I’m just getting off the tube and will be at the flat in a moment. Will you be needing me there?” John felt a knot of excitement in his stomach, his mind filling with a variety of services he thought he might be able to provide if Sherlock would just keep talking.    
“Not yet, but you won’t be going too far out of your way.”  
“Ah--fine. What’s the errand?”  
“The Tool Shop on Melcombe. I need supplies for an experiment, and you’re just the one to select them. Phone me when you arrive in aisle 2,” Sherlock said before hanging up abruptly.  
John shook his head, but kept walking until he reached the diy store. He pulled out his mobile and called Sherlock back. “I’m in aisle 2. Go ahead.”  
“Mm, yes. Walk toward the back of the store. Look to your right, then down. You should see...”   
“Pipe. Lengths of pipe,” John replied, suddenly finding himself a bit short of breath.  
“Yes, kneel down, John. I’ll need you to handle each type carefully, just as I tell you,” Sherlock sounded a little breathless himself, which John noted as an unusual thing.  
“There are two types here. Copper and PVC,” John began.  
“Right. Begin with the PVC. Run your index finger slowly up and down the length, using the pad of your finger as you move down and your knuckle as you go back up. Tell me how your finger moves across the material.”   
“Smooth on the down stroke. My knuckle catches on the way up, but not terribly so.” John wet his lips, unsure of precisely why this was turning him on but allowing himself to feel it nonetheless.  
“Yes, that’s as I expected. Now grip the pipe gently and move your hand slowly down the shaft. Only down, and count the times that your hand catches.” John lost his ability to breathe for a moment, but complied, taking the pipe gently in his hand and sliding down. “Count aloud, John,” Sherlock commanded.  
John drew a sweating hand slowly down the PVC and counted aloud, “One...two, only twice, Sherlock.”  
“Mmm, wonderful, John,” Sherlock purred. “That is in keeping with my own experiments here at the flat.”  
“What experiments would those be, Sherlock?” John chanced to ask. He heard the heat in Sherlock’s voice and hoped--but no, surely it couldn’t be.  
“I’m here in the flat, slowly stroking my cock,” he pulled at each word, his deep voice rumbling in through the mobile phone and sinking down until John felt that it was Sherlock’s voice that was filling his cock and not the rush of blood that had currently made him hard.  
As Sherlock’s words took hold, John fumbled the phone, dropping it onto the floor with a crack. The mobile was in two pieces, and his connection with Sherlock was severed. He shoved the pieces into his pocket and hurried off, doing the best that he could to hide his erection.   
  
It was only a 2 minute walk to the flat, and John walked in to find Sherlock draped across the couch, facing the doorway. He was wearing nothing but his blue dressing gown, his pale skin exposed from the chest down. He met John’s gaze and held it as he spoke, stroking himself all the while. “Ahh, John. You’re here. And I see my words had the desired effect on you.”

“Yes, well. You seem to be very good at choosing the right words to say under these circumstances. And I don’t have a problem with how you say them, either. But...I'm not ready to--ahh, fuck, I can't say I'm not gay, but I don't know if I'm ready to actually do anything. Even with you. Although Christ you look amazing right now.” John ran a hand over the bulge in his trousers and let his tongue slip from his mouth to wet his lips.  
Sherlock didn't stop stroking himself, he'd been slowly pulling at his cock the entire time that John had been standing in the doorway, and John could see that he was leaking pre-come, sliding his thumb over the tip of his cock and wetting himself with it on the down stroke. He swallowed hard as Sherlock spoke, "I understand, John. I won't push, but I know you want me. I've heard as much these past few weeks. First in the shower, then in your bedroom. More than once a day. You can't be surprised that I noticed. And when I determined it was my voice that was undoing you, well, John, I couldn't help but test you."  
"Did I pass?"  
"Oh, John, you've done everything I expected. But not in a boring way. I won't ask you to do anything you're not uncomfortable with, but I will tell you what I'd like you to do and I think you'll find you're willing to comply. Now, trousers off and pants down. Let me see you."  
  
John breathed out. This. He was dreaming it again, he had to be. He pinched himself hard, then shut and opened his eyes.  
"No, John, this is isn't a dream. Though I thought your dreams might have been a bit like this. You do adore the tinge of domesticity. Or debauched domesticity, in this case."  
"Yes, that's--this is pretty close to one or two things that I thought of."  
"So. Trousers, pants. Keep your jumper on if you'd like. I might not mind seeing if we can ruin it."  
"Annoying prat," John muttered under his breath as he unbuttoned his fly and pulled down his y-fronts. He moved to kick them off, but Sherlock stopped him.  
"Keep them 'round your ankles, John. I like how rushed and needy it makes you seem."  
"Oh, fuck, Sherlock."  
  
"Mm, no, for now you can take yourself in hand. Mirror my actions while I talk to you." John was hard and his cock was wet with arousal. It felt so good to finally touch his cock that he let out a long moaning growl that made Sherlock bite his lip and still his hand at the head of his cock, squeezing momentarily before he went back to stroking, a bit faster now.  
  
"Yes, John, I like that. You're aching right now, positively desperate. You know I'd like you in my mouth, that gorgeous cock of yours. It's thick, John, much thicker than I expected and I know it would fill me up. But then you couldn't hear me talking. Wouldn’t hear me saying your name again and again. I’ve seen how your pupils dilate when I say it just so. Would that frustrate you to no end, John? Or would you like it?"  
  
"Uhnnnn, both most likely." It was getting difficult for him to focus, and he felt weak in the knees. "I can't take how slow you're moving, Sherlock. Fuck, please."  
  
"Like this?" Sherlock asked, canting his hips up as he pumped faster.  
  
"Yes, god, please," John responded, mimicking Sherlock's speed.  
  
"Grip yourself tighter, John. That’s right, yes. Ohh, you're brilliant this way, John. Go ahead and come for me, we'll have plenty of time to see how long I can make you wait for it, have you begging me for release."  
  
That was almost enough to finish John, but what sent him well and truly over the edge was Sherlock's eyes on him. They were filled with greed and expectation, a look that Sherlock usually reserved for particularly good cases or a fresh pack of cigarettes when he'd been quit for only a few days. John came with a low moan that felt primal and raw. Sherlock came at nearly the same time, his moan a long extension of John’s name. It was clear they both found the moment almost too much. John’s hand was covered in his own come, and he turned to grab a flannel from the bathroom when Sherlock spoke.  
  
"No. You have two choices, John. Either lick yourself clean or use your jumper."  
  
After a moment’s pause, John wiped his hand along the front of his jumper, a rather hideous one that he’d gotten from a Secret Santa the previous Christmas. He then stumbled forward, almost forgetting that his trousers were around his ankles, but kicking them off before they made him fall on his face. He reached the couch and leaned in close to Sherlock, placing a knee on the couch to steady himself.  
"Not sure how you feel about it, but I'd like to kiss you right now. Just...to see." John moved forward slightly with every word, unsure why he thought Sherlock might say no but fearing it nonetheless.  
  
Sherlock cast his eyes to the side coquettishly and John grinned in spite of himself. Maybe he was taking this all far too seriously. They'd just wanked off in unison in their flat, for god's sake.  
  
He leaned forward and felt Sherlock rise to meet him, their mouths pressed together tenderly at first, then with a rush of heat as lips parted and tongues met. He slid a hand behind Sherlock's head and braced himself on the back of the couch so that he was nearly on top of him before breaking the kiss.  
  
"Why did you stop, John?"  
  
The flush on Sherlock's face and mouth was lovely, and when he spoke John felt himself melting. This was worse than before, much worse, but also infinitely better. Still, John wasn’t entirely sure why he’d stopped. This was already complicated and unusual and more than he had bargained for, and he’d already done more with Sherlock than he had with any other man. He was certain there’d be more than a few nights that he’d regret the decision to explore this kind of relationship with this particular madman. And yet at the moment it felt right.  
  
“Just getting my bearings, Sherlock,” he said, pulling the other man toward him so they could twine together on the couch. “And I’d like to talk a bit, hear what you like, all that--I’m not a master of deduction like you, you know.”  
  
“Are you sure it’s not just my voice you’re after, John?” Sherlock asked with eyebrows raised.  
“Might have something to do with it,” John replied, settling a hand on Sherlock’s hip and rubbing gentle circles with the pad of his thumb. “But you know it’s more than that, so. Go on. Talk to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't an iteration of the boys that I've done before, and a lot of my work has stronger BDSM themes. Just...fair warning if you keep a-clicking.


End file.
